


Sugar, Sugar

by ohstarswa1d



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Twelveclara, twelveclara au, twelveclara coffee shop / radio host au, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-16 04:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14156874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohstarswa1d/pseuds/ohstarswa1d
Summary: In which the Doctor is a radio host pining after Clara Oswald with a playlist fit for any idiot with sheer, dumb luck.





	Sugar, Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> I highly suggest listening to "I Am The D.J." by Neon Trees while reading, seeing as it's what sparked this whole idea. ("Somebody's Baby" by Jackson Browne and, obviously, "Pretty Woman" work, too.)

He knew he was, by no means, the _best_ at his job.

There were other, more-liked radio hosts; there were other more-listened-to stations. But, somehow, _Gallifrey 90.1_ had ratings high enough to keep it on the air for all those years. And John Smith had been the Doctor for more than he could count.

(He’d made a vow to _never_ refer to himself as Doctor _Disco_ outside of the station. The moniker had fallen upon _Gallifrey_ ’s host in the 80s and, to his dismay, had never been dropped.)

He knew, too, all too well, that his time on the air was coming to a close.

(Literally. His contract was nearly up and he’d been attending meetings for potential new Doctor Discos all week. He’d put his two cents in and hoped the blonde with the Yorkshire accent got the job.)

But, in true Doctor fashion, he wanted to go out with a bang. And, deep in the rarely-visited folds of his mind, the Doctor knew John Smith would _never_ pull such a _stunt._

John Smith was the timid, polite man who held open doors for interns carrying too many trays of coffee every morning; who grew too much basil in his flat’s window boxes; who had fashioned a clockwork squirrel from a radio nobody had a use for any longer.

The _Doctor_ got doors held open in his wake; he displayed antique vinyls he’d amassed through friends of friends and flea markets and thrift shops anywhere he could, and never stopped the collection from covering his walls entirely; he blasted riffs through the radio’s building with the very same cherry red bass that had been played in his university-era band.

It was safe to say the Doctor considered himself separate from his tamer alter-ego - except for the fact that John Smith knew how to style _punk rock_ with _I’m going gray._

The matte black Docs he’d grown accustomed to and had adopted as his brand scuffed against the concrete step into the coffee shop like they had every other morning for as long as he could remember.

(And if Wednesday mornings had existed forever his memory must’ve been infinite.)

He weaved his way through tables, deftly avoiding bumping any mugs or plastic to-go cups to the floor with an air of someone who had done so before.

(He had. He’d never worn any pants that _weren’t_ black ever since.)

“Large black, please,” he asked, a rehearsed line spoken more times than he dared to count. The barista, having already seen him coming, nodded solemnly with a knowing smile. He waited against the wall next to the pastry display as per his routine, checking his phone with blind eyes. There were more meeting scheduled, without a doubt about the future of the Doctor’s post. He didn’t much care for the onslaught of future events whose color-coded dates mocked him from his calendar. He wanted to live in the present.

“Large black for the Doctor,” the barista said near his ear, sliding the cup gently towards him.

“Cheers.” Tugging the lid off as he went, the Doctor approached the sugars and creams across the room. Right on schedule, he dug a handful of sugar packets from their jar, glancing into the mirror affixed to the wall in front of him as he did so.

And there she was.

Only her brown eyes peeked over the laptop, narrowed in concentration at its screen. He smiled at the Jane Austen sticker (and what _are_ men to rocks and mountains? Especially him. He must’ve looked like a fossil to her) on its lid, tearing his first three sugar packets over his drink at once.

For the umpteenth time, he wondered what she added to her usual order, a large iced hazelnut, to make it almost as light as her pale skin, illuminated then by whatever she was working so diligently on. Writing a novel? Researching foreign concepts?

(Trolling commenters on the Internet? He’d still take her, even if it was so.)

Another five sugar packets spilled into the dark abyss of his coffee. That day she wore a yellow sweater that looked, at any moment, it would swallow her whole. Even with the sleeves cuffed several times over, they threatened to push down past her fingers, still typing away.

And never acknowledging him.

The Doctor sighed and emptied the last four sugar packets’ contents, breaking his one-ended eye contact with the mystery woman. She was no more than that to him: a mystery.

A mystery that was _nagging_ him relentlessly, day and night. It was more so than usual ever since he’d started playing a track of the day aimed at her after every Wednesday coffee stop. He’d exhausted “Pretty Woman” early on; he’d even played the Van Halen cover, just in case that was her preference. There were equal amounts of countless classic rock ballads, early pop numbers, and straight-and-simple love songs. There was no limit to music; there was a melody for every situation. The day he’d seen his mystery girl sat across from a sheepish, tweed-clad man in a bow tie, he’d played “Somebody’s Baby” once on air and about a hundred times to himself.

But today, he decided, lidding his coffee and stepping back into the world without another word, would be different. Today was his last Wednesday as the Doctor, and he was going to make it count.

Maybe it was the caffeine that had replaced his hesitancy that made him bounce as he bounded into the studio. Or, maybe it was the adrenaline that was making him itch to ditch his headset, grab his mic and shout his inner desires out to the world.

(Or both. It could've been both.)

“ _Laaaadies and gents!_ ” he drawled the instant the _ON AIR_ sign blared in bright red at him. “It's a lovely Wednesday morning here at _Gallifrey 90.1_ , and we hope it’s the same for you. There’s plenty to get to, as always, but first, let’s take a little detour.”

 _Now or never_ , he told himself, inhaling and exhaling through his nose with a finality devoid of remorse. “I’m sure some of you have been wondering why I started playing tracks of the day - my bosses sure have. Today, I’m the man with all the answers.”

He paused for as long as he could without creating dead air. The record player was already jacked up to the broadcasting system; all he had to do was slip the needle into the well-worn path. “It's all for a _girl_. Big shocker, eh? This old man’s still got the moves. I don't know if she's listening, or if she ever has. I don't even know her name. Just her coffee order.” A chuckle forced its way through him. It had all sounded better in his head, but the ball was already rolling.

“She’s always got the same thing: an iced hazelnut, always at the most important coffee shop in human history - that's what it’s called. Bit much, but they know what they're doing. Sometimes she's got two if it’s been a long night. I can’t stand the taste myself, but…” Needle to vinyl. Radio-edited opening chords were slowly breaking into the air around him. “…she knows exactly who she is. It's quite the long shot, isn't it? If you're out there, mystery girl, tuning in, give me a sign.”

The music was on the verge of drowning him out, and he let it. “ _You're just too good to be true…”_

 _Maybe she is. Maybe it all is_ , the Doctor thought. _You still did it, though._

“… _But if you feel like I feel, please let me know that it’s real…”_

“For goodness’ _sake_ ,” he murmured, hands dragging across his face.

It wasn't until his meeting hours later that he reminded himself of what he had done that morning, after composing himself through Frankie Valli’s falsetto crooning and pushing all thoughts of his mystery girl aside. The Doctor hunted and pecked away at his own laptop, adorned with an amalgamation of rock and punk bands’ logos, while those around him began discussing everything he was disinterested in.

He’d left the Four Seasons’ Spotify page open for himself to find.

 _What constitutes as a sign?_ he asked himself, slumping down in his chair in thought. He made to open a new tab, just to see if Google held answers for him, then saw it.

An email notification. Right there, in his face.

Rarely did he ever receive emails that _weren’t_ for promotional ads or for social media updates - he’d shut the settings off for them. He prayed that something as fickle as coupons for his local grocery store hadn't slipped past his security net, and clicked on the icon anyway.

_1 New Email_

(Oh, _oh,_ her username was much more clever than the _mystery girl_ moniker he’d set on her.)

 _from_ [ _1mposs1bleg1rl@gmail.com_ ](mailto:1mposs1bleg1rl@gmail.com) _. Open?_

 _What kind of question is that?_ he questioned the default code. _Yes!_

The Doctor covered his sharp intake of breath with a faux clearing of his throat. He read the message, the message _so obviously_ from _her_ over a few times, unable to take his eyes off it, finding no reason to stop the grin from spreading across his face.

_Black coffee with twelve sugars, every time. I love watching you attack the sugar bowl, even if you barely leave any for me._

A sign that wasn't even two lines of text long was enough for him. It was _plenty._ Maybe, just maybe, letting _the Doctor_ go wouldn't be as bad as it was cracked up to be.

It absolutely _couldn't_ be, not with an _impossible girl_ pointing him towards Wednesday.


End file.
